


Same old

by alley_oops, jennandanica



Series: Citadel: Alfonso Herrera/Christos Vasilopoulos [2]
Category: Actor RPF, Banshee (TV) RPF, Citadel (Journalfen RPG), Greek Actor RPF, Mexican Actor RPF, Sense8 (TV) RPF, The Exorcist (TV) RPF
Genre: BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 17:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14525175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alley_oops/pseuds/alley_oops, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennandanica/pseuds/jennandanica
Summary: This is a re-posting (archiving) of all logs for the Alfonso Herrera/Christos Vasilopoulos storyline in the BDSM RPS RPGCitadel.





	Same old

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-posting (archiving) of all logs for the Alfonso Herrera/Christos Vasilopoulos storyline in the BDSM RPS RPG [Citadel](http://citadel.dreamwidth.org/read).

[backdated to 2013; features [Kostas Martakis](https://citadel-npcs.dreamwidth.org/9280.html)]

Lifting his hand to knock, Christos hesitates. Warnings flash through his mind. Memories he wishes he could bury. But it's inevitable -- he pounds his fist twice on the door, and steps back with a sigh of resignation.

"You at my door." Kostas is wearing black skinny jeans and nothing else. He looks brain-meltingly gorgeous, just like always. There's a challenge in his smile when he opens the door wider in invitation. "When will the heavens stop surprising me?"

"Oh, it'll be a night full of surprises," Christos retorts, stepping into the apartment and looking around. The place is a pigsty, just like always.

"Oh, I doubt that." Kos swings the door shut and shoots the deadbolt. Christos looms large in the room, his white t-shirt stretched across his biceps and his ass shown off in his dress trousers. "Why do you always bring that ratpiss?" he says with a frown.

Christos lifts the bottle of gin in salute, and pulls open kitchen cabinets until he finds the one with the glasses. "Because I know you always buy that sweet-as-crap cheap soda pop. It's a good mixer."

"Who would've figured you for a sweet tooth?" Kos rolls out his shoulders then flings himself back against the sofa.

"I've always been," Christos demurs, eyeing him steadily. Staying as neutral as he can.

"Well, whatever." Kos drags a hand slowly through his hair. Then he shrugs. "You should go. I don't want you here."

Christos swallows, and lowers his glass to the - Jesus, glass? Really? - countertop. "You don't want me here."

"Nope." Smirking, Kos adds, "Don't want you, don't need you."

Gesturing to the expanse of room, sloppy though it is, Christos says, "But you're alone tonight."

"So fucking what? I've got a dildo. A big fucking one," Kos says, his smile as sharp as a blade. "I've got plugs, and nipple clamps, and a mirror. Plus a couple hundred people I could ring up and they'd bolt over here like their asses were on fire."

Silence stretches between them. God, Christos fucking hates this game. Hates the same weary dance they've been treading for years. He licks his lips. "So you want me to go."

Kos gestures to the door. "Please. Go."

Finishing off his drink, Christos sets the glass in the cluttered sink. "I'm going to leave," he says, strolling over to unlock the door. At least he's still got the bottle. He can hear the snort of laughter behind him clear as day.

"Christ, you _would_ go, you pussy."

There it is. Shutting his eyes for a moment, Christos purses his lips. He knows his next move like it was yesterday.

He strides to the sofa in a second, jerking Kos's hips up to undo his jeans. Methodically pulling them down to his knees, then kicking off his own shoes.

"What, no fucking kiss?"

"No kiss, you goddamn tramp. Who knows where the fuck your mouth has been?"

"I know," Kos says, and laughs, "most of the time."

It's only at that moment that Christos realizes Kostas is high. Stifling a groan he steps back and bends to pick up his shoes again.

"What? Don't pretend you're going to walk away." Kos sits up, indignant and offended as a back-row choirgirl, but Christos already has his hand on the doorknob. "Get your ass back here!"

Something strikes Christos on his shoulder blade; he looks down to see a hardcover book. And here Kostas has never been much of a reader… "Stop it. You're loaded."

"Yeah I am, bitch. You think I don't know what I'm doing?" Kos steps out of his puddled jeans. "I know what this is. I fucking consent!" He smacks Christos across the face.

Grabbing his wrist, Christos squeezes in warning. "You're wasted," he says, enunciating clearly. "Stop it."

Kos's blue eyes flash, and he smacks Christos with his other hand. Christos grabs that hand too, and Kos crushes their lips together. "Please, sir. I miss you. I've missed you so much," he whispers into the kiss.

His face flaming, Christos drops Kostas's hands and wraps his arms around him. He hitches his thighs up around his waist and carries him back to the couch with a growl.

"Please. Fuck. Don't make me wait," Kostas says breathlessly, hands working open Christos's trousers. "No lube. Please."

Knowing himself for a fool, Christos digs a rubber out of his pocket. Then spits into his palm. Slowly he guides his cock into Kos, gritting his teeth at the tightness.

"Yes. Yes. Yes." Kos chants the word, his nails digging into Christos's shoulders as he bears down. "Fuck, yes!"

The couch groans alarmingly, skidding inch by inch on the hardwood. Christos is frantic, he is every time, unable to resist plowing deep. Every thrust hits home, and he kisses Kos fiercely like he'll swallow him.

Then sparks flash behind his eyes and he staggers upright, his ear clanging with the clash of a hundred church bells. "Wha--?"

"Get off me!" Kostas snaps. "Fuck you, it doesn't matter what I want, does it? It's all fucking about you." His voice drips with vitriol. "Get _off_ me!"

One hand on the rubber, Christos pulls out. _Fuck_.

"I don't want you!" Kos yells. "Fuck you for coming here!"

Christos stands up shakily and falls back a step. He feels like a ghost as he pulls his trousers back on, vague and only partly present. He doesn't even really hear the next words Kostas says. Just picks up his shoes and leaves without a look back.


End file.
